Not the Only One
by TsubameTrebleClef
Summary: Ed never truly let his mother go - he always relied on her, even though she wasn't physically beside him. Who will he turn to when he has a dream and realises that he can't depend on her forever?


**A/N: This story is really about Ed, Trisha **_**and**_** Winry, but this site only lets me put two characters.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Fullmetal Alchemist**_**.**

* * *

Until now, he hadn't needed to worry. About missing Alphonse or missing Winry or missing the train or missing the station. He hadn't spared a thought for the sound of drills or the smell of fresh baking or the sight of boundless green fields or the feel of, very simply, home.

Now, having travelled from Resembool all the way to the western border of Amestris, he wished he had.

Because his mother was standing before him.

A million different sentiments exploded inside him as he stared, fixated, at the woman who had cherished and protected him so dearly for the first and happiest years of his life. He told himself numbly that it wasn't real, that it wasn't possible, that he wasn't standing in his hometown but lying in bed in a cold and distant inn – but the impulsive part of him pushed the thoughts away.

Every time he had dreamed of his mother in the past, a frightening and ominous aura had loomed over her beautiful form. She would lure him close and manipulate him into believing that she was really the Trisha Elric who had been so kind and selfless before she died – and then she would mutate herself into a terrifying monster or the grotesque creature her sons had transmuted in a failed attempt to bring her back to life.

But now it was different. Nothing in the air seemed foreboding – the sky was a brilliant blue, dotted here and there with clusters of cotton clouds; the overgrown grass was wet with diamond dewdrops; the river gushed and splashed, drops of water glittering like sapphires in the sunlight. And Trisha stood on the bank with her hands clasped behind her and reeds bending and swaying at her feet.

"Come here, Ed," she said in a soft voice, stretching out a hand towards her son.

Her tone, her smile, her gesture – everything was so real, so instantly recognisable that Edward couldn't stop himself. His feet began to move, faster and faster with every step, and –

He froze, his hand barely an inch from his mother's. "I can't," he said. "In a moment you're going to turn into another nightmare." In truth, he was afraid – afraid that she would morph into the chimera made from Nina and her dog, which still haunted him after all these years – afraid that he would wake up screaming for his real mother who would never come.

Trisha said nothing, but continued to smile in the sweet, gentle way that made Edward's heart ache with sadness and longing. Then she took a step forward and wrapped her arms tenderly around him.

Time seemed to stop – that is, if it was moving at all in this surreal world – and Edward was only aware of the overflowing warmth radiating from his mother's body and the steady beat of her heart against him. And somehow – just somehow, he knew it was her and no one else – not a demonic being that was the product of his imagination. "Mum," was all he could say.

He hugged her back, and after a moment, Trisha said, "Ed, I'm so proud of you. Of both you and Al."

Edward let go of her and stepped back, willing himself to stay on his feet. Too much was happening at once, and this was supposed to be a dream. "Why? We tried to resurrect you and mutilated our bodies. We created something that should never have existed. I'm –" he choked, "– I'm sorry. You know, Mum," – the words were tumbling out now, and he knew he ought not to say what was on the tip of his tongue – "sometimes I wish you'd died earlier. Then I wouldn't remember you, and Al wouldn't have been dragged into this business."

There. He had said it. He'd thought of it many times since the failed transmutation, but never had he dreamed he'd say it aloud to anyone, let alone his own mother. Now it really was a dream, and he'd said it.

But Trisha only reached up and brushed Edward's bangs off his face. "And if I had died earlier, would you have been filled with a need to regain your bodies? Would you have discovered the corruption in the military? Would you have fought for the fate of Amestris and ensured the safety of its citizens?"

He looked up as she cupped his face in her hands, just as she had done when he was little. Her green eyes were warm and loving and sincere. "No, Mum," he answered.

Then the grass and the river began to blur and fade, and for a moment Edward thought he had begun to cry. When it became apparent that this was not the case – that the scene was slipping away and his mother along with it – he reached out in panic. "No! Don't go!" he shouted, his voice breaking. "Mum!"

But everything was dissolving into darkness, and he looked at his mother for the last time and saw that the smile on her face was both serene and melancholy. Her mouth moved, but even the sounds of gushing water and rustling leaves were fading, and it was impossible to hear what she was telling him.

* * *

Edward sat bolt upright, and it took him a moment to register his surroundings. A small room that had walls with slightly lopsided wooden planks, in which a small table, cabinet and bed were crammed. Bright morning light streamed in through the wide gap between the moth-eaten curtains.

"Al," he said instinctively, turning to the table. Then he remembered that Alphonse was on his way to Xing – he was further away than the other side of the country. "Al," he whispered again, and his voice was raspy and cracked. It was no use. His brother wasn't here for him to confide in, wasn't here when Edward truly needed him.

Edward stumbled out of bed, almost entangling himself in his twisted sheets. His mind was reeling. All the details of the dream were slipping away as quickly as they had come; already he could no longer remember if he had really seen his mother – really seen her, and talked to her. He could no longer remember how he had been sure of her genuineness and substantiality. But despite the things he could not recall, various moments flashed by clearly in his mind – how she had embraced him, how her voice had sounded – and they were enough to cause him to feel as if his mother had died all over again. The pain was so fresh, so instant that it almost crushed him – he could feel his throat closing up with grief and despair.

He wrenched the door open and stumbled down the corridor. His left leg – where the stump was connected to the automail socket – felt like it was on fire. He lunged towards the empty counter, grabbed the telephone receiver and dialled the first number.

His mother's heart had beat so strongly – how had it failed when she was so young? He could almost hear it thumping, echoing his own heartbeat . . .

He dialled the second number.

Had it really been her? Was that really possible? If not, how could it have been so real? It would have been better, easier if she'd transformed into a wild beast . . .

He dialled the third number, and the fourth, and the fifth – his hands moved like those of a robot, mechanical and inanimate. He dialled the last number and waited, breathing hard and gripping the edge of the counter with his free hand lest he should fall.

Now that he had seen her again – the real Trisha, or so he presumed, he was consumed with an urge to bring her back for the second time; but he knew that he couldn't, and felt as if this fact would drive him insane if he didn't talk to someone –

"Hello, Rockbell Studio."

It was as though he was a balloon that had just burst. Hearing Winry's tired voice jolted him back to reality, and only then did he realise that it was her number he had dialled, that it was Alphonse he had hoped to contact but had no means to reach.

"Hello? Who is it?" Winry sounded concerned and more alert than she had a moment ago.

Edward forced his mouth to open and form the words, "It's me."

There was a pause. "Ed?" Another pause. Then . . . "What do you think you're doing, interrupting my beauty sleep so early in the morning? I pulled all-nighters for a whole week, you know! Do you seriously want me to go bankrupt because I didn't meet my customers' demands? Well, do you? What do you want, anyway?"

The familiarity of all this was too much. Edward drew in a shaky breath, intending to make up a sarcastic excuse and scream it in Winry's ear, but instead a lump formed rapidly in his throat and a tear rolled down his cheek. His conscience shrieked at him to pull the receiver away from his ear, but something kept it there, transmitting his sobs across open fields and bustling cities and lush forests to the little house he now called home.

"Ed?" Winry's voice was barely louder than a whisper. "Ed, what's wrong?"

Edward made to slam the receiver down on the telephone hook, but Winry's furious voice stopped him. "Don't!" There was heavy breathing on the other side of the line. "You were about to put the phone down, weren't you? I've told you so many times not to keep things bottled up!"

"No, it's nothing, really." Edward tried to keep his voice steady, but it still sounded broken and uneven.

"Oh, yes, you call me when the sun's barely up, only to say nothing's wrong!" There was a loud intake of breath, and Edward knew Winry had started crying, too. Her next words were soft and gentle. "Please, Ed. You don't have to pretend. Being selfless doesn't make us feel any better. Have you ever thought about that?"

He hadn't.

After much chiding, Edward told Winry about his dream. When he had finished, he asked, reluctantly, "Was it really her?"

Winry did not hesitate. "Of course it was."

"How can you be so sure?"

Winry gave an exasperated sigh, but Edward suspected she was also somewhat amused. "You're not the only one who has dreams like that, Ed. After I talked to Scar and bandaged up his arm, my parents thanked me, too. That's just the way it is. You could say it's equivalent exchange."

For a while Edward simply stood there, holding tight to the edge of the counter. Then he smiled. "I guess you're right. I always underestimate you, Winry."

* * *

Edward dreamed of his mother again that night. They sat side by side on the riverbank, watching the steady flow of the river and listening to the rustling of the reeds and the overgrown grass. Eventually Trisha soothingly stroked his hair and said, "I'll be going now." From the way she said the words, Edward knew without her telling him that she was not coming back.

"It's all right," he said placidly, "you don't need to worry about me. I have other people waiting for me back home. I'm not alone."

At last he knew what she had tried to say the previous night: "Remember, Edward – no matter where you go, you will always have someone to depend on. You'll be fine without me."

And so, with no farewell but a little smile, Edward let his mother go. He had finally come to terms with the fact that Trisha was no longer in the world of the living, and that he had to say goodbye to the times when he had unyieldingly clung to her imaginary presence.

And yet, he knew she'd still be there somehow, tucking him in at night, urging him on when he was troubled, laughing and crying with him when the situation called for it.

He had to move on and keep living the best life he could. But he wasn't the only one who had had to suffer.

He wasn't the only one.


End file.
